Water & Stone
by Elwen
Summary: Frodo is taken ill upon entering Moria. A FrodoHealers fic. (no...I'm not going to kill him.)
1. Default Chapter

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DISCLAIMER

I do not own any of the characters and most of the events/settings in this story. They belong to JRR Tolkien and his estate. I do not make any profit from their use and offer apologies and thanks for their tolerance.

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I'd also like to thank Frodo Baggins of Bag End for being my beta reader, 

general encourager and medical researcher on this fic.

If you're daft enough to try any of the medical procedures in this fic. I take no responsibility for your physical or mental health. You're obviously even sillier than me.

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WATER AND STONE

Merry was trying to get his pipe to light but the 'weed seemed to have become too damp. Just as he was about to strike flint to it again Pippin caught his arm, and the spark flew wide as he tried valiantly to restrain the annoyance that flashed across his face.

"Why is Gimli doing that?"

Merry followed his cousin's gaze to where the dwarf was marching up and down the cliff wall determinedly, dealing ringing blows to the stone with his axe.

"I don't know, Pip. Maybe he thinks he can hack his way in," replied the older hobbit impatiently, returning to the pesky task of trying to kindle the reluctant pipeweed to life.

"I don't think his axe is strong enough to do that, is it?"

Merry decided to treat that as a rhetorical question and struck another spark from the flint.

"What's he doing, Merry?" Pippin tapped his cousin's shoulder urgently. Merry sighed and decided to put away his pipe. It was at least the fifth time that the younger hobbit had asked some silly question as they sat shivering outside the gates of the dwarven city of Moria.

Once more Merry turned to seek out the subject of his question. Gandalf was every inch the imposing wizard as he stood before some faint markings on the seamless rock face, alternately chanting under his breath and commanding loudly in various languages. But the doors, if they were doors, remained stubbornly closed and Gandalf was looking less imposing with each passing minute. In truth Merry thought he could actually detect a note of desperation creeping into the wizard's voice.

Pippin's tap on his shoulder brought him back from study of their guide. "What's he doing now?"

"He's trying to get us inside and away from those awful wargs," replied Merry testily, waving in the general direction of the Wizard.

"No. Not Gandalf…….. Legolas." Pippin nodded towards the wood elf' who had pressed his head close against the rock face.

Merry had to admit that it was odd behaviour. He had seen Legolas listen to trees but never rocks. But then, all the big people that formed their party seemed odd to him. He missed the simple, straightforward folk of the Shire. Everyone here seemed to have some hidden motive or identity. No one was as they first appeared and it made life very complicated.

Gandalf appeared to be a kindly old man who made fireworks. Now he was revealed as a mighty wizard.

In Rivendell Gimli had appeared to be a friendly dwarf with a store of funny after dinner tales. Now he was revealed as a person with connections in the very highest circles of dwarven society; a cousin to the Lord of Moria. Although that did not seem to be helping him get inside, thought Merry ruefully.

Boromir, at least, did not appear to be other than he had declared himself to be at the Council. That did not make him any less frightening, however, as he had made no secret of the fact that he thought the ring ought to be his, to own and to wield. Merry found that he constantly wanted to set himself between the huge man and Frodo, although in their journey so far he had provided ample evidence that Merry would have little chance against him in a match of strength. Still he would try . . . he had promised to protect the Ringbearer, and if that meant that he had to protect Frodo from other members of the Fellowship, then so be it.

Even Boromir had shown a softer side to his nature, however, when he had offered to teach Merry and Pippin to use their swords properly. Everything Merry now knew about fighting he had learned from Boromir, but if it came to a fight to protect Frodo, he did not think he stood much of a chance against such a doughty warrior as the son of the Steward of Gondor.

Strider had so many names that Merry had given up trying to remember them and continued to call him Strider most of the time. Every time he thought he knew all about him, the would be king opened up another door to reveal more of his life and heritage.

But to Merry it was Legolas who was the strangest of them all. He did not know how many centuries the wood elf had lived, but there were times when he was almost as childlike as Pippin in his joy and wonder. He never seemed to tire of Pippin's chatter about the Shire, which was just as well for the young hobbit chattered incessantly, and laughed freely at descriptions of the antics of Pip's various relatives. At those times it was easy to forget that he was a royal prince and many years older than anyone in the Fellowship . . . perhaps even older than Gandalf.

At other times, as now, it was very obvious that the elf was totally different from them all in many ways. Legolas would never age and die and he was linked to the earth in a way that mortals could never be, for he could hear the song of Iluvatar, which created and held all things together. Even as Merry watched, the elf had moved from the rock face and was now leaning close against one of the two ancient holly trees that flanked the supposed gates of Moria. Merry wondered if it was very noisy, being able to hear the thoughts and feelings of every living thing. What sort of thoughts did trees have, he wondered, and could Legolas hear his thoughts? Legolas glanced his way and the little hobbit instinctively ducked his head. "Stupid hobbit," Merry berated himself. If elves could hear his thoughts would ducking his head stop him?

Pippin nudged him again and Merry realised that it had been some time since he had been asked the question that had set off his line of thought. "I have no idea what he's doing."

"I'll go and ask, shall I?" Pippin made to get up, but Merry pulled him down again.

"It's none of your business, Pip. Leave him to . . . whatever it is that he's doing."

Pippin shot him a frustrated look, but remained seated. "I was only curious," he muttered.

Merry smiled. "And curiosity killed the cat."

Pippin stuck his tongue out in response.

Legolas now turned to survey the dark lake, and Merry and Pippin followed his gaze.

A chill breeze seemed to flow from, rather than over, the oily mere for it did not ruffle the slimy liquid. For the first time Pippin noticed that neither moonlight nor stars were reflected in its surface. Rather, it absorbed all light like some deep pit. He wondered if it was some trick of his imagination and, picking up a small stone at his feet, he lobbed it into the still waters. It made a loud plop and sent out sluggish ripples, only faintly laced by the moonlight. 

A wavelet broke on the shore a few inches from his toes, disturbing the slime at the edge and sending up a waft of putrid air that made Pippin wrinkle his nose in distaste. Considering how little movement his thrown pebble had caused the hobbit was surprised that a ripple had even reached the shore. He selected another stone and drew back his arm to throw, but yelped when a huge hand grasped his wrist. He looked up to find his arm captured by Strider.

"Do not disturb the water." The Ranger's voice was barely more than a whisper but carried all the authority of a royal edict. He released Pippin's hand and the little hobbit dropped the pebble without question. Another wavelet gnawed hungrily at the shore and Pippin snatched his foot out of the way. Now Strider and Boromir had joined Legolas in staring at the dim water. Tiring of this boring activity, Pippin glanced behind him.

Sam was sniffing quietly as he redistributed the contents of the pony's baggage between their various packs. Bill had already disappeared back down the trail at a whisper from Gandalf and a slap on the rump from Strider. Pippin hoped that the wargs did not catch Bill but he thought it very unlikely that the placid pony would slip past them, unnoticed. As he watched, Merry joined Sam, offering the gardener his hanky and putting an arm about his shoulder. That was just like Merry. He was everybody's big brother. Of course, this particular big brother still had a talent for pranks.

Deciding that his presence would not be appreciated there, Pippin got up and crossed to where Frodo and Gimli sat watching Gandalf. The young hobbit flopped down quietly next to his older cousin and Frodo flashed him a quick smile of welcome before turning back to stare at the pale symbols on the rock face. The older hobbit's eyebrows quirked up in the middle as they usually did when he was thinking.

Pippin had always been slightly in awe of Frodo. Even back in the Shire, he felt that Frodo knew more about the world than Pippin could ever hope to know, and Pippin wanted to know everything. As the future Thain Pippin had and still was receiving the best of education's but Frodo knew things that would never be considered essential by Pippin's tutors. Pip could not resist letting a small grin cross his face. Most of his tutors would be horrified if they found out what sort of ideas Mr Baggins was putting in Pippin's head. 

For his part Frodo never seemed to mind the constant questions and would spend hours talking with him about anything that came in to Pippin's eager mind. Merry often did the same, of course, but Frodo never lost his patience and was willing to go over things again and again until Pippin understood, whereas Merry would lose interest after a while.

"Oh, it's useless!" muttered Gandalf, throwing down his staff and twitching his robes angrily as he sat down on the same rock ledge with Frodo, Pippin and Gimli. The younger hobbit opened his mouth to say something but Frodo anticipated him and shook his head, blue eyes wide in warning. Pippin closed his mouth with a snap, suddenly remembering the wizard's comments when they had arrived. His head ached just thinking about being used as a doorknocker against the huge stone portal marked out on the cliff face. The loud belling howl of a warg reverberated off the rock around them and Pippin shuddered. The creatures were gaining on the party.

Frodo's eyebrows evened out and he stood slowly, a light growing in his eyes. "It's a riddle."

Gandalf's gaze flicked from Frodo to the doors and back again as the Ringbearer turned to him.

"What's the Elvish for 'friend'?" In his excitement at discovering the answer, all his lessons from Bilbo had slipped from his mind, and the word refused to come to his tongue.

Understanding grew in Gandalf's face, and he too rose, turning to face the faint sigils. Clearing his throat and throwing out his arms theatrically, he spoke one word in a loud, ringing voice that echoed resoundingly off the granite walls.

"Mellon!"

Slowly the shape of a large doorway was outlined where no seam or mark had been visible before. It divided in the middle, there was a loud grating sound and the huge gates swung ponderously outward to reveal a yawning black portal, which exhaled a dry, cold, dusty breath.

Scooping up his staff, Gandalf strode triumphantly through the doors and into the gloom of Moria. The rest of the Fellowship gathered up their packs and followed more reluctantly, blinking in an attempt to accustom themselves to the solid darkness once within the doors. The four hobbits were near the back of the party, with Legolas stepping lightly, but strangely hesitant, behind them.

It was Gimli who saw the remains first, his dwarven eyes more accustomed to the dark of stone and cave.

"No!" He ran forward, to one of the mouldering heaps scattered about the floor. From its size it had obviously been a dwarf once but now it was a shapeless mound of bone, cloth and armour. Gimli wrested a large black arrow from the place where its chest would have been, only to have it snatched from his hands by Legolas. Gimli rumbled ominously but the elf ignored him, bright eyes narrowing as he assessed the fletchings and construction briefly.

"Orcs," he declared firmly. His mouth turned down at the corners, as though speaking the very word left an unpleasant taste.

Gandalf wasted no more time. "Leave! We must leave this place. Now!" For a moment, the unexpected note of fear in his voice made everyone freeze. 

It was then, as the hobbits huddled hesitantly, at the rear of the party, that it happened.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Out of the corner of his eye Sam saw Frodo pitch forward, a sharp cry forced from him as he hit the granite floor. Seeing his master in pain spurred Sam to action faster than any wizard's instruction. He reached down, intending to help Frodo up but his friend was not there. In alarm he looked about and, to his horror, saw his master being dragged backwards on his belly towards the gates. Frodo was desperately scrabbling at the floor, trying to find some purchase to slow or prevent his movement but his actions only succeeded in leaving tracks in the dust that lay thickly upon the still smooth floor. In the faint glimmer of moonlight slipping through the door Sam could just make out the shape of a pale hand wrapped about Frodo's ankle, attached to a long, pale green and luminous tentacle that snaked out of the noisome mere.

"I'm coming, Frodo!" yelled Sam, as he drew his sword and ran towards his master, who had crossed the threshold and was being dragged, inexorably, towards the now turbulent water. 

"Sam. Help me!"

Running with a speed he did not know he possessed, Sam reached his friend's side and began to stab and hack at the vile, slimy tentacle that clutched the slender ankle so tightly.

It was Sam's cry that galvanised the rest of the party. Boromir, Legolas, Gimli, and Aragorn quickly caught up with the two struggling hobbits. With a mighty swing, Aragorn brought his sword down, inches from Frodo's heel, slicing cleanly through the fleshy cord that bound him. Sam dragged a gasping and trembling Frodo to his feet. The party was about to turn and flee when the water before them erupted like a giant geyser and dozens more tentacles shot forward, slapping all but Frodo to the ground. The Ringbearer had not even time to draw breath for a scream before a thick cord whipped about his chest and squeezed hard, hoisting him high into the air above the seething cauldron of black waves.

Elven reflexes brought Legolas to his senses first. Even before he was upright he had drawn and nocked his bow, letting fly an arrow as soon as he had his feet under him. It buried itself deep into the tentacle that held Frodo aloft and a loud howl erupted from somewhere in the darkness. Frodo felt himself falling but before he reached the water another tentacle snatched his leg and he screamed in agony as his entire body weight swung suddenly from one slim ankle. Then he was yanked aloft once more and further out towards the centre of the lake . . . away from his companions.

Boromir and Aragorn waded into the slimy water, hacking at the limb that held their companion. It was finally sliced through and Frodo felt himself falling again, this time splashing hard into the murky water. He sank beneath its stinking surface, the shock of entry making him gasp in a large lungful of the vile liquid. His body coiled reflexively about the piercing agony in his chest and he was unaware of Boromir's large hand grasping his cloak and hauling him out of the slime, lifting the hobbit effortlessly in strong arms and wading swiftly to the shore.

Aragorn and Gimli were still slicing and hacking at tentacles, which had now switched their attack to the son of the Steward. Just on the edge of mortal sight, Aragorn could see a large mound beginning to surface, far out in the lake.

"Legolas. There." He pointed swiftly then spun to hew at a particularly determined coil and hoped that the elf had seen the direction of his wave. Legolas' had indeed caught the direction of his gesture and his keen clear gaze marked more than the mortal. The bulk rising from the waters had two huge crimson eyes. He took aim and let fly. The arrow disappeared into one red orb and the valley resounded to the creature's agonised howl.

Boromir reached the shore and continued on into Moria, trusting the others to watch his back, Frodo's limp and silent form held tightly against his chest. Aragorn followed, scooping up a breathless Sam; elf and dwarf brought up the rear, herding the terrified Merry and Pippin before them. Gandalf called them deeper inside, just in time.

In a last fit of pain and frustration, the creature in the lake threw forth all its remaining limbs, its coils grasping at the stone lintel above the huge doors. With a mighty heave it wrested it loose and several tons of rock crashed down, pulling the doors down with them and blocking out the moonlight. When the last stone rolled to a stop the only sounds to be heard were the choking coughs and heaving breaths of the Fellowship. With no moonlight coming through the doors, the blackness was a solid thing that wrapped them round like some cloyingly tight blanket.

Suddenly there was the sound of wood tapping stone and several gasps of alarm as an incandescent blue light flared. Gandalf stood in the centre of the group, the tip of his staff glowing brightly and pushing back the dark. Merry let out his breath in a sigh of relief. They still could not see far through the settling dust, but he felt better within the circle of light provided by the wizard.

Sam's keening voice was the first to break the breathy silence.

"Oh no. Mr Frodo…"

The Ringbearer lay draped like some child's rag doll over Boromir's solid arms and no movement stirred the sodden clothes that clung to his small chest. Beneath the layer of slimy water his skin was grey. Gandalf's hastily outstretched hand detected no feather of warm air issuing from between the blue tinged lips.

"Aragorn?" The wizard deferred to Elrond's foster son, who sheathed his sword swiftly and stepped to Boromir's side. Merry slipped an arm about Pippin's shoulder as the younger hobbit began to sob quietly. Touching fingers to Frodo's neck, Aragorn stilled himself to feel any pulse, however faint; a light flutter beneath his fingertips making him release a breath held too long.

"Set him on his stomach on the floor. Quickly!"

Boromir's warrior reflexes brought him to his knees instantly, flipping his tiny charge over and settling him carefully on the dust coated stone before him. Aragorn caught Frodo's head before it could come in contact with the hard granite and turned the hobbit's face to one side, tilting it back and slipping a finger into the mouth. He grimaced as he hooked out a small wad of slime covered weed and flung it away to land with a faint wet slap in the darkness beyond them.

Drawing Frodo's arms up and folding his hands beneath the cooling cheek, Aragorn knelt beyond his patient's head. Careful not to press too hard on the child sized form, the Ranger ran his hands down either side of Frodo's back, pressing lightly at his waist, then back up, grasping the hobbit's upper arms and stretching them gently towards his knees. On the third repeat of this motion Aragorn was rewarded by the sound of a soft sigh from Frodo. He had taken a first breath. One more and the Ringbearer erupted into a fit of deep coughing, a small puddle of dark liquid spilling from his mouth as his lungs fought to replace the foul lake water with life giving air.

Aragorn rubbed Frodo's back in light circles and waited for the cough to subside. "Sam, find me a dry blanket, please."

The gardener rushed to comply, his fingers fumbling at the ties on his pack in his haste. He finally managed to free his blanket and thrust it at Strider, who draped it over Boromir's outstretched arms and then lifted Frodo into it, wrapping him closely in the confining warmth. They would need to remove the hobbit's sodden clothing soon, but for the moment he settled for the extra layer of warmth from the blanket. Boromir cradled the tiny cocooned form against the warmth of his body, careful to allow room for the rise and fall of the labouring chest. He had seen enough battle injuries to know that the greatest enemy now was cold, which sapped the body's strength to heal itself. At least in Boromir's arms Frodo would be away from the cold stone that would sap further warmth from his body.

Pippin still sobbed within the protective circle of his cousin's arm and hot tears flowed silently down Merry's face too. Neither spared the time to take their eyes from the gasping form of their relative long enough to find a hanky. Gimli brought a comforting hand down upon Merry's shoulder.

"Where there is breath there is hope. Gandalf tells me he endured greater hardship than this on the way to Rivendell. Do not give up on him," offered the dwarf gruffly.

Pippin sniffed and drew himself up and Merry ran his sleeve across his face. "You're right, Gimli. And this is no time to give in. Frodo needs us."

At the edge of the group Legolas stood facing silently into the darkness. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be straining to listen. Gandalf stepped to his side, the light from his staff causing shadows to dance dizzyingly upon the walls.

"What do you sense?" the wizard enquired.

Legolas shook his head and turned worried green eyes to his companion. "I sense nothing and that worries me."

"How so? Surely sensing no evil is a good thing."

"It is not an absence of something that I feel . . . but rather a dampening of my senses. It is as though I am pressed upon by walls on all sides and am unable to see beyond them. Something waits here that does not wish to be heard."

The wizard nodded. "Orcs, perhaps. Sauron has given them many abilities over the years. Mayhap this is a new one. If we tread carefully we may still cross to the other side without being detected. We must at least try."

A little exclamation from Sam cut off any reply Legolas was about to make, and the two turned to rejoin the party gathered around the Ringbearer.

It was the sight of Frodo cracking open blue eyes that had made Sam cry out in relief. Blinking the world back into focus took a few moments, but Frodo eventually found himself staring up into Boromir's concerned features and a faint note of alarm nagged at the corner of his mind. A light touch at his neck made him turn his head however, and there he found Aragorn and the rest of his companions. He opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was a croak; furthermore the action set off a violent cough, sending lancing pain through his chest. Frodo wrapped his arms about his body and tried to curl up within Boromir's embrace. Someone placed a cloth over his mouth and Frodo spat out the vile tasting fluid that came up from his lungs.

Gandalf drew Gimli to one side. "We need to find somewhere to rest for a while. Preferably somewhere easy to defend and with fresh water. We could also do with a fire to warm Frodo." He sighed in resignation. "But I fear that would announce our presence to any enemies about."

The dwarf nodded, glancing back at the bundle of blanket in Boromir's arms, Frodo's shivering visible even from this distance. "It is usual to have a guard room near the gates. That would have all the attributes you seek and may even be able to furnish a fireplace with a chimney venting to the outside wall. Of course, whether you will find anything to make a fire is another matter."

Gandalf clapped him on the shoulder. "If you would but find us the room and water, that will suffice."

Gimli looked about them. "Somewhere by the gates I saw some torches set in the wall. If they have not been buried in the rubble I could fetch one and go exploring, leaving you to provide light for our friends." He struck off into the gloom letting his dwarven sense of direction underground guide him. Sure enough a few moments later the Fellowship were surprised to see a warm yellow flame kindle, and Gimli returned, bearing a torch.

"The guard post would probably be off to our right. I shall return shortly." Without waiting for comment, Gimli strode off into the darkness, the glow from his torch suddenly disappearing as he turned a corner.

Frodo uncurled a little as he managed to bring the coughing under control. He was beginning to feel very cold and could not suppress a deeper shudder at a chill draft blowing in from the maw of a nearby doorway. Aragorn and Boromir noticed it at once.

"We must get him out of these wet clothes as soon as possible," the Steward's son stated, almost challengingly, to Aragorn. He had argued against this frail creature carrying the Ring from the first and now he felt his fears justified. As if in negation, Frodo tried to pull the blanket closer. He was shivering with cold and his chest felt as though it had been scoured from the inside, each breath an agony of fiery pain. He couldn't seem to get rid of the feeling of dizziness, and his limbs felt so heavy.

The thought of being asked to undress offered only the prospect of using more energy than he felt he could summon, not to mention the revelation of what he wore beneath his shirt. Desperately seeking more warmth he curled tighter and leaned in a little closer to the heat of Boromir's chest, faintly aware of the sound of the big man's heartbeat. Leaden eyelids slid shut and the voices drifted away.

Sam was crouched at Boromir's side, not at all happy at the idea of this man so close to his master and the Ring.

"Won't he be colder without them? We've had to leave all the spare clothes behind, although I think he may have a clean shirt at the bottom of his pack." He began to pick at the fastenings on Frodo's small pack, but Strider hunkered down and stopped him.

"We can wrap him in blankets for the moment. The water has chilled him so deeply that his body cannot dry the clothes he is wearing; they are only cooling him further. We must get him out of them as soon as possible and try to warm him." He touched Sam's arm in comfort. "Collect the blankets from everyone's packs and bring them to me. In the meantime, Boromir and I will undress him."

Sam rose, casting one last look at his master. He would much rather he had familiar hands undressing him but Aragorn at least he trusted and Sam had to acknowledge that he had not the strength to hold Frodo clear of the cold stone as Boromir did now. "He looks so pale. Will he be alright?"

Aragorn looked across at the little hobbit's face, their eyes level for once. "I will not lie to you, Sam. He is in grave danger. Most people fight off an incident like this quite well but, if I remember correctly, Bilbo said that he had a rather bad illness when he was younger and that may have weakened his lungs." He glanced down at the pale face. "And that water did not look too healthy. He has a strong spirit, though. He proved that on the road to Rivendell." 

"Thank you, Strider…for being honest." The little hobbit turned towards Merry's pack and began to unfasten the blanket rolled atop it. Pushing aside the feeling that he had just passed some sort of test, the Ranger turned back to his charge.

"Frodo? Frodo? Don't go to sleep. You must not go to sleep yet." Aragorn's voice, surprisingly soft, was accompanied by a gentle shaking of his shoulder. Frodo pushed open reluctant eyelids and found he was still cradled in Boromir's arms, lying in his lap as the warrior sat, cross-legged, on the cold floor.

"We must get you out of those wet clothes. I have dry blankets for you. Then you can rest a little." As he spoke, Boromir helped the Ranger unwrap the tiny hobbit. Frodo's shivering increased as the blanket was removed and fingers began pulling at the fastenings of his cloak and jacket. He had not the energy to help or resist (even when they found the mail shirt) and simply allowed them to peel off his sodden clothing. For their part, his helpers did not ask for his assistance, simply working efficiently together to divest him of his cold and soggy outfit as quickly as possible. 

When they reached the mithril-shirt, both men paused. Polished silver rings glimmered like a thousand fish scales in the glow of Gandalf's staff, the jewels at its collar scattering the light into a shower of delicate rainbows. There was not time to study it too closely, however, for Frodo was now shaking violently and within moments Aragorn was stuffing it into Frodo's pack, pushing it down to the bottom, out of sight. Finally the hobbit lay, naked but for the ring that hung on its chain above his bruised chest. Boromir sat, transfixed by the soft golden glow of the circlet. Just as his hand was about to reach out, Aragorn pushed the chain aside and laid his own hands on Frodo's ribs.

Although there was plenty of bruising he found no broken bones. One ankle was badly swollen and red, but gentle manipulation and pressure revealed no breaks there, either. Aragorn bent his head to Frodo's small chest and listened. With each quick shallow breath there was an unnatural gurgle, announcing clearly that not all the viscous lake fluid had been expelled from the hobbit's lungs. It was this that worried him most as he looked up, Legolas handing him a dry blanket. Sam set the rest of the Fellowships blankets in a small heap before him.

Aragorn vigorously rubbed Frodo dry, eliciting a few small cries of protest from his charge, then he and Boromir wrapped him in almost every covering the Fellowship possessed. By the time they had finished, only the Ringbearer's eyes were still visible, a fold of blanket even brought up to cover his damp hair. Had he not still been shivering violently, Frodo would have slept at once for he felt quite exhausted, but every time he closed his eyes and felt himself drifting a shudder would wrack his frame and he would start awake once more.

Setting his staff in the crook of his arm the Wizard reached out. "Give him to me." Gandalf's gruff and friendly voice penetrated Frodo's misery and he felt himself being raised and then settled in new arms. There was a comforting smell of pipe weed and the soft scratch of wool against his forehead as his head lolled helplessly against a new body. The Ringbearer opened his eyes and was greeted with a vast field of grey wool that was the wizard's chest. A large hand rested lightly on his brow and a wave of warmth spread outward from it, washing through his body. Tightly clenched muscles relaxed and Frodo melted into Gandalf's comforting embrace with a soft sigh, closing his eyes once more and letting the world drift past him.

Merry looked up from wringing out Frodo's clothes as a glimmer of torchlight announced Gimli's return. The dwarf was smiling broadly as he approached Gandalf, but his face fell when he saw the bundle held tenderly in the wizard's arms. The little of Frodo's face that was visible was deathly pale, and each rapid and broken inhalation could be clearly heard.

"I have found the guard post. The passageway goes off to the left, and then there is a short stair and a narrow hallway, which opens up into a wide room. In the centre of the floor is a well and a fireplace has been built on the outer wall. There are even some pieces of broken furniture that we can burn to make a fire." He lowered his voice so that only Gandalf could hear. "There is also another exit, which leads to a large hall with several other doorways, so we have an escape route if we are attacked."

Gandalf wasted no time. "Come along, everybody. This way. Gimli has found us a place to rest, for a little while." Shifting Frodo into the crook of one arm, he took his staff in the other hand and led the way from the exposed hall.

Legolas turned from his uneasy inspection of the darkness and Aragorn followed close on Gandalf's heels. The hobbits collected Frodo's clothes and pack and Boromir brought up the rear, turning occasionally to check behind them. Gimli took up position in the middle of the group, his torch held high. The flickering light threw into relief what would once have been beautiful and delicate carvings on the walls and doorpost, but years of vandalism had left very little intact. 

Legolas paused occasionally to let his long slender fingers trace the outline of a flower or leaf and Boromir noted the taut mask of his face and hesitant step. His captain's mind assessed what he saw. Would they be able to rely on the elf if there was a need to fight? The Steward's son had little experience of elves, his brief sojourn at Rivendell his first real contact. 

This one looked younger than most . . . and yet he had been told that Legolas had lived thousands of years. Would his present obvious discomfort hamper him, or would his warrior training overcome when put to the test? Boromir decided to keep one eye open for any cracks in the brittle facade; yet another thing for him to worry about . . . and wondered whether Isildur's heir had yet noticed this potential problem.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

The room they entered was wide, its high ceiling lost in the gloom. Only slightly taller than hobbits, Pippin wondered why dwarves insisted upon such lofty spaces, longing for the cosy domed ceilings of his home. At its centre a dark hole marked the presence of the well and with no wall around it, Pippin would have fallen in, had Merry not caught him and pulled him back. A large fireplace stood at one end, with a metal hook poised to swing across it. The light from Gandalf's staff was not quite bright enough to reach the edges of the chamber but vague shapes could be seen piled against the walls.

A quick glance down at Frodo confirmed that he was resting a little more peacefully and Gandalf turned. "Legolas, will you take our Ringbearer for a little while?" The elf stepped forward without hesitation and tenderly lifted the bundle from the Wizard's arms. Once he was settled, Legolas sat, cross-legged, before the fireplace, and drew the hobbit closer to share the warmth of his body.

Gandalf passed his hand over the tip of his staff and muttered something under his breath. The Fellowship squinted as the light from its tip waxed, throwing all into sharp relief and leaving no corner of the room unexposed to its questing glare. 

"Quickly, now," instructed the Wizard. "I cannot risk this level of light for too long. Search the room for anything that may be of use to us. Sam, Merry, and Pippin, see if you can find us some firewood. Frodo will need more warmth, and I think Aragorn will have to heat water for his medicines."

The hobbits sprang into action, grateful at last for something to do. Pippin in particular, raised clouds of dust as he rummaged amongst the bits of broken furniture and other detritus at the borders of their refuge. Boromir and Gimli joined them, helping to lift some of the larger items, while Aragorn settled down next to Legolas and opened his pack.

The Ranger touched his friend's arm briefly. "Are you well, Legolas?" he whispered, continuing to rummage at the bottom of his pack. 

The elf did not lift his face from the study of Frodo. "I am well enough." His voice betrayed no emotion.

Aragorn drew out the box he had been seeking but paused before opening it. "What troubles you? Let me help. Do not push your friends away." He was looking directly at the elf now. 

Legolas finally met his gaze and dropped the mask he had been holding so carefully. Aragorn's breath caught as he saw the anguish in the green depths of his friend's eyes.

The Prince's voice was hardly more than a whisper, intended for the Ranger's ears only, even though he slipped into Sindarin. "Elves were not intended to walk within the earth, far from the sound of tree and leaf. That I could endure, but there is something more here…" He shook his head, as if to clear it. "Something hides in the deep places here. I cannot hear it, but I can feel the walls it has set about me. Moria holds some great evil."

"What can I do to aid you, my friend?" The Ranger asked, also in the grey tongue, his voice filled with concern.

"I fear there is nothing you can do. This is something I must battle alone. I draw strength from your presence though, indeed from all our Fellowship. If I had entered here alone I think I may have gone mad for yours are the only melodies I can hear." Aragorn watched him begin to reconstruct his facade of competence. "Even the water does not sing to me in this dark place," he sighed.

"You have my presence and my "song" at all times, Legolas."

The wood elf smiled his thanks and returned to his vigil. Aragorn opened the box he had been holding in his lap and began to sort through its collection of bottles, boxes and packets.

Too soon, it seemed to everyone, Gandalf reduced the light from his staff to its previous soft glow and the members of the Fellowship returned to the fireplace to review the results of their scavenging.

"We've found lots of broken chairs and tables in a corner, over there." Pippin pointed behind him. He and Merry were standing behind a pile of wood almost as tall as themselves, which seemed to consist mainly of table legs and bits of chair. Both hobbits were panting hard from their exertions but seemed very pleased with the results.

"This is only a small part of it," confirmed Merry.

"It appears to have been heaped there to block a doorway," Gimli added. "I thought it strange that there was no direct access to the hall below if this room was intended to be the guard post for the gates. It looks as though whoever stayed here last was trying to prevent an attack from that quarter."

"I wonder where they went from here and what happened to them," mused Pippin. 

Merry jabbed him in the ribs. "Do you have to think out loud? I'm trying not to worry about that one just yet," he muttered.

Sam looked inordinately pleased with himself when he produced a collection of dusty blankets. "I thought these might come in useful. I wouldn't want to wrap Mr Frodo in them, but they might make a mattress to keep him off the cold stone floor." He looked less convinced of the usefulness of his other find, a huge cooking pot, nearly as big as he was.

For his part, Gimli had found the bucket and chain that appeared to have been used at the well. It was still intact, although the chain was very rusty and a thick, black fletched arrow was lodged in the rim of the bucket. Boromir had found a small stash of candles.

Gandalf beamed. "We have fared much better than I could have hoped."

From behind him came Aragorn's voice. "We must build a fire as quickly as possible." He rose from his place by the Elf and ushered the Fellowship out of earshot of the semi-conscious Frodo. "Frodo is not recovering as well as he could and I see the signs of a fever building." The Ranger turned to look down at Merry. "Bilbo once mentioned an illness, many years ago. One that affected Frodo's chest. Do you know anything of it?"

Merry nodded. "I was only a youngster at the time. It was shortly after he left to live at Bag End. I remember the grown-ups discussing it when they thought I was not around." Pippin smiled. Being around where he should not had always been one of Merry's talents and was responsible for most of the scrapes he had got himself into at Brandy Hall. Merry continued.

"He was ill for some weeks. They said it was pneumonia but he kept having relapses." He faced Strider, defiantly. "Some people said that it was because Bilbo didn't know how to look after a tweenager, but I never believed that."

Strider nodded, grimly. "I have spoken long with Bilbo while he stayed in Rivendell. I cannot believe that he would not have done all that he could for his nephew."

"Bilbo would give his own life, if he thought it would save Frodo," interjected Pippin, hotly. "We all would."

"Let us hope that it will not come to that," Aragorn replied, dropping a hand on Pippin's shoulder. "My point is that such a serious illness will have left some weakness in the lungs. In this situation, to have inhaled water is bad enough, but you all saw and smelled that lake water………." He shook his head. "I fear Frodo may be in for a battle every bit as fierce as the one he fought on the road to Rivendell." The Ranger looked pleadingly at Gandalf. "And I have not Elrond's skill in healing."

To everyone's surprise, it was Sam who spoke up. "Well, we don't have Master Elrond, and there's no point wishing. "Wishing don't get the job done," as my Gaffer would say. It's up to us to look after Mr Frodo, because we're all he's got." He drew himself up to his full height and folded his arms across his chest. "And I, for one, don't intend to let him down."

Despite the situation, Merry chuckled. "You are quite right, as usual, Sam. Trust you to be the practical one. We must make the best use of what we have. We have our experience, our wits and, best of all, we have our love for Frodo."

"Then let us set to it," suggested Gandalf.

Within minutes they had chosen their tasks. Pippin laid a fire while Merry helped Sam to shake out the dusty blankets and fold them by the hearth as a makeshift mattress. The air in Moria was not wholesome but at least by the fire the chimney would draw it through and keep it moving. It was the closest they could get to fresh air and Frodo would benefit from the warmth of the fire once it was lit.

Boromir and Gandalf inspected the various entrances and exits to their refuge and discussed best strategies for its defence.

Aragorn began setting out packets and small earthenware bottles at a corner of the large hearth.

To Gimli fell the task of cleaning up the bucket and re-attaching the chain to its fixings by the well.

They spoke little as they worked for all were painfully aware of the breaths coming from the small bundle in Legolas' arms. Slowly, another sound began to weave in and around those raspings. The Elf's song was soft and low at first but gradually rose until its sweetness filled the room. Although only a few understood his words their minds were filled with glowing images. He sang of sunlight shining through spring green leaves and bright splashing water. Then of moonlight on open meadows and star strewn winter skies. As the last notes died away the Fellowship shook themselves and returned to their work, somehow lighter in spirit.

To Frodo it seemed that he waded through foul smelling marshes. The ground sucked at his feet and his will, making each step a battle against a weariness that went soul deep. A stench filled his lungs and, try as he might, he could not seem to draw in enough of the thick air to satisfy his body's need. In addition, something beat at the edges of his mind; something evil. Frodo wanted to flee, but his body and the marsh would not co-operate. His panic mounted as he gasped for air, however disgusting, and tried to pull his feet clear of the grasping mud.

Suddenly a ray of light pierced the mist surrounding him, illuminating a narrow dry path. Frodo set one foot upon it and then the other. As he walked, trees appeared; tall and majestic. The light brightened and the mist rolled away, to reveal a sun dappled wood and a small clear stream. Breathing was still difficult but the air Frodo pulled into his starved lungs was clean and smelled of honeysuckle and bluebells.

As he wondered on the sun dipped below the horizon and Frodo stepped out of the rustle of the trees and into a moonlit meadow. Tall silver grass swayed in the light breeze, looking like the gentle swell of the sea and the silken whisper of its movement was a balm to his mind.

Above him was a blue velvet sky, sprinkled with a thousand glittering stars. He sighed and lay back, the smell of the crushed grass beneath his body a sweet fragrance in his nostrils.

The figure in Legolas' arms uncurled a little as the elf sang. The Prince laid the fingers of one hand on Frodo's slightly over warm forehead. The hobbit's breathing slowed and lost some of its watery gurgle, the eyelids ceased their fluttering movements and the furrows in his brow smoothed.

TBC.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Sam and Aragorn eyed the water in the bucket dubiously. "Perhaps we could boil it," suggested Gimli. The muddy water smelled a little earthy but seemed otherwise normal. Flowing through hard stone, however, it should have been clearer and no one liked to consider too deeply what it was that had produced the sediment in the liquid drawn up from the well. 

"If we had some muslin we could strain it. Then if we let it settle and boil it when it's cleared……………." Sam thought out loud. "But we've nothing as fine as muslin."

Gandalf had been listening to their discussion. "Would silk suffice?" he offered.

"It would do very well. If we had any," replied Aragorn.

The wizard fished about for a moment within his robes. Sam had noticed before that Gandalf's overmantle hid a selection of pockets and it was from one of these that he now produced a small screwed-up bundle of fine grey fabric, which he handed to the Ranger. Aragorn opened it out to examine it, his eyebrows raised in unconscious imitation of his foster father.

It turned out to be a scarf. Made of the finest silk, it was nearly six feet long and two feet wide, with the elven rune G expertly embroidered at either end. It was a beautiful thing, and yet it had been bundled away in a pocket and was now being offered to strain mud. Strider tugged experimentally at it. "This will be perfect. Thank you, Gandalf."

The wizard nodded and leaned close to whisper in Aragorn's ear. "I won't tell Arwen if you don't. It was a present." 

Arwen's betrothed chuckled. "Your secret is safe."

And so it was that they stretched the beautiful silk scarf over one of Sam's pans and poured some of the water through it. Pippin had a steady blaze going in the hearth by now, so they boiled the water and left it to settle. There was still a little sediment, but they ladled out the clean water and threw away the dregs. Any water that was not used immediately they stored in the huge cauldron, after Merry and Pippin had scrubbed it clean . . . a job which had necessitated Pippin climbing inside it at one point, much to Gimli's amusement.

The Ringbearer now lay on a makeshift mattress of old blankets, only a little way from the hearth. His face was flushed and he shifted restlessly within his nest of covers. Aragorn drew them aside and bent his head to listen at the pale chest again, his face clouding as he detected the telltale crackle of building infection. Frodo's breathing was shallow, increasingly rapid, and he seemed only vaguely aware of his surroundings.

Aragorn looked up to find Sam's ever present from, sitting opposite him. "He's not doing well, is he?" asked the hobbit. His eyes, the colour of fresh tilled loam, were moist with unshed tears.

"He is struggling, Sam. But he has not succumbed yet and there is much we can yet do to aid him."

"Just tell me what he needs and I'll see it done."

Before Aragorn could reply Frodo interrupted them, his bright blue eyes opening wide in panic as he tried to force air into his lungs. He lay, gulping like a fish out of water and his face was turning a pale grey.

"Strider . . . can't breathe . . . help . . ."

Aragorn slipped an arm beneath Frodo's shoulders and raised him slightly. Almost immediately, the hobbit took a deeper breath, and as he took more the grey was once more replaced by the pale flush of fever.

"Sam. Find me something to lean him against. Try padding one of our packs with a blanket."

Sam cast about amongst the various pieces of baggage and finally selected Boromir's pack. The man relinquished it without protest but he stood, watching the Ringbearer's struggles, for some minutes. It was the work of only a few moments to pad it with a blanket and slip it behind Frodo and Aragorn laid him gently back, tucking the covers close about his shoulders again.

"Sam, bathe his face and hands with a little cool water and put a compress on his forehead. We must not let this fever rise too high." Aragorn stood. "I will prepare something to help relieve it."

Frodo tried to make himself comfortable. The blankets beneath him were not as soft as his feather mattress at Bag End, but at least they were protecting him from the chill of the stone floor. He concentrated on trying to draw air into his aching chest but every breath was something for which he had to steel himself. The delicate membranes of his lungs cried out in protest as each indrawn breath of cold air scoured them, the fight to push that air out again accompanied by a sharp pain in his side and chest. The constant struggle was forcing him to breathe less deeply and more rapidly and this, in turn was making him feel dizzy and light-headed. The temptation to give up the fight was almost too great, but his body would not let him, and so he went on, his whole world encompassed by the need to breathe.

When he returned to the hearth, Aragorn found Gandalf waiting for him. 

"How fares Frodo?" the wizard enquired.

"His fever rises. If he develops pneumonia he will need rest, but I fear the cough will keep him wakeful."

Gandalf nodded. "He is not the only one who needs rest. Have you spoken with Legolas recently?"

Aragorn did not look up from his preparation of the ginger tea he had decided upon for Frodo. "I have," he replied non-commitally. 

The wizard chuckled. "Do not worry, Aragorn. You break no confidence. I know what troubles our fair companion. He told me of the effect this place is having upon him and his fears about the cause."

The Ranger met Gandalf's eyes. "I worry about him. The strain is beginning to tell and I have never seen him so uncertain."

Gandalf nodded. "I think sleep will help, but I doubt he will manage that unaided. I saw him lie down a little while ago, but now he sits watch with Gimli once more. Do you have aught that would help him rest?"

"I have. But I doubt he will take it." Aragorn smiled. "Elven princes are renowned for their pride and this one has a stubborn streak that I have tussled with before."

"Wizards can be stubborn as well. Prepare your potion and I will ensure that he takes it."

Opening a small bottle the Ranger poured a few drops of the contents into a cup, then added an equal amount of water, gently swirling the resulting milky liquid. He smiled crookedly at Gandalf. "Do you mind if I come along? I would like to watch this skirmish."

"By all means." The wizard motioned for Aragorn to precede him. Leaving instructions with Pippin on the preparation of Frodo's tea, Aragorn crossed the room with Gandalf.

Legolas and Gimli sat on either side of one of the doors. Gimli had relieved the elf of his guard duty, but although Legolas had gone to lie down and sleep, he had returned only half an hour later, stating that he was not tired. Seeing the faint shadows beneath green eyes, Gimli doubted his assertion but felt he had not the right to interfere.

"I had no idea that Moria was so large. You dwarves must have carved out the entire mountain."

Gimli nodded, a little nonplussed at the sudden communicative nature of the elf. "You have not seen it in its full glory," he replied, sadly. "The halls were once lit with a thousand crystal lamps and the marble floors were polished until they reflected back the glow."

Legolas settled on the floor. "Was everything as beautifully carved as the walls we passed by?"

The dwarf looked hard at his questioner. The wood-elf was normally very self-contained and for the first part of their journey, had communicated only in the exchange of jibes. Even during their trials on Caradhras, when everyone else had reached the end of their tethers, Legolas had been calm and serene. Now there was a tightness at the corners of his mouth and his eyes had lost their sparkle. Sitting cross-legged upon the floor, he picked absently at the laces on his soft leather boots and Gimli could not remember ever having seen him fidget before. Legolas was evidently troubled by something, and the dwarf surprised himself when he realised that he cared. The two had argued on just about everything during their journey, only reaching an uneasy truce by the time they descended Caradhras. Gimli had not noticed when that truce had turned into friendship but now, seeing the small signs of the elf's distress, Gimli the son of Gloin felt concern.

"Indeed they are. There are tales of one hall where the pillars are carved into the forms of giant trees, so that you would swear that you had stepped into some ancient forest."

Legolas smiled. "I would like to see that."

As he spoke, Aragorn approached, with Gandalf in his wake. "Drink this." He handed a cup to Legolas, who eyed the few mouthfuls of milky liquid with some suspicion.

"What is it?"

"You need to sleep. This will help." Aragorn looked pleadingly at his friend.

Legolas shook his head and tried to hand the cup back but the Ranger folded his arms. "I am well enough. Elves do not need sleep in the same way that mortals do. And my bow will be needed if we are attacked"

Gimli had been listening to the conversation with some interest. It was apparent that his suspicions were correct and there was, indeed, something amiss with the elf. Even now, however, he could not resist a quip. "We could save you an orc, for when you awaken."

Gandalf shot him a look that could have petrified an oak.

For a moment, Legolas was stunned. "Master Dwarf! This is no time to be flippant. We do not know what dangers . . ."

Gandalf decided that he had heard enough. "Indeed, we do not. And if we do encounter anything, I would like you to be bright and alert. At the moment you are exhausted." Legolas opened his mouth to protest, but the wizard held up a hand and continued. "Do not try to deny it. I know that you stood more than your fair share of watches between Rivendell and here. You fool no one. Not even a dwarf." This produced a low growl from Gimli but Gandalf pressed on. "I promise that I shall awaken you, should the need arise." He set a hand beneath the cup in the elf's hand and pushed it gently upwards, a little relieved when he no longer met any resistance. Legolas swallowed the contents and grimaced at Aragorn.

"Your potions never taste any better."

Aragorn chuckled. "Somebody once told me that the better the medicine, the worse it tasted."

"Then that must be one of your better ones." Legolas smiled grimly and returned the empty cup. This time Aragorn accepted it.

"Come, Master Elf. You had better lie down before that draught takes hold." Gandalf caught Legolas' arm and drew him to his feet, leading him, unresisting, back to where his cloak lay abandoned in a corner. By the time the prince reached it he was already reeling a little, and his eyelids slid shut as soon as he lay down.

Watching from the door, Gimli commented, "I thought elves always slept with their eyes open."

"They usually do. Unless they have just been fed a powerful sedative, mixed and supplied by Lord Elrond," smiled the Ranger.

At the other entrance Boromir had been standing his watch alone. But his attention had been divided between the dark hallway beyond and studying the disparate pair of elf and dwarf. Gimli stood easily, leaning upon his axe, but Legolas sat stiffly. As he watched, Gandalf and Aragorn approached the elf and spoke briefly with him. Then he and Gandalf had returned to the corner where Legolas had laid out his cloak. Boromir turned to study Isildur's Heir, where he stood with Gimli. His eyes were following the elf, although he continued to talk to the dwarf. Had he finally noticed something amiss?

Pippin inspected the last of their bread, made in the embers of their fire several days ago. It was now hard and stale and Merry had suggested that they toast it, so to Pippin had fallen the task of slicing, not an easy task for it had a tendency to crumble. As he worked, his inquisitive eyes swept the room.

Aragorn was sorting through his packets of herbs and bottles once more, reading labels. Pippin fancied that if the Ranger read them one more time the ink would wear away.

Legolas was acting strangely again. When Gimli went to relieve him from guard duty he went to lie down but got up again within a few minutes. Now he was lying down again. Pippin could never work out whether Legolas was sleeping or not but he hoped so, because that meant that Pippin could have the elf's share of supper. Perhaps the fact that the bright green eyes were now closed meant that he was sleeping. On the other hand, as Legolas usually slept with eyes open, maybe that meant that he was awake. Pippin shook his head to clear it of the convoluted thought.

Boromir had relieved Gandalf at the other door. Pippin didn't like the way the big man kept looking at his cousin. It was as though he felt that Frodo's present illness confirmed his opinion that a hobbit was too weak for the task of Ringbearer and Pip fancied he could almost hear him announcing, "I told you so."

Gandalf was wandering here and there about the room, like a caged animal. Come to think of it, where was Gandalf?

"Good evening, Master Peregrine." Pippin jumped as the wizard stole up, silently, behind him. "How fares our supper?"

It was Merry who answered. "It will be a little sparse, I'm afraid. We have plenty of dried vegetables, but little dried meat, and only a few apples for desert." 

Gandalf patted Merry on the back. "Do the best you can. I've never met a hobbit yet that couldn't make a feast out of nothing."

"And leave nothing from a feast," chuckled Aragorn. As Gandalf moved off the Ranger turned to Merry. "Strain off some of the broth for Frodo and set it aside. We will need to get some nourishment into him."

"Talking of which," Pippin interjected, "this tea has cooled enough, I think." He handed Strider a small cup, filled with warm liquid. The pleasant smell of ginger and honey drifted on the steam rising from it.

Sam was wringing out a cloth as Aragorn sat down at his side. Folding it carefully, he draped its cool weight upon his master's forehead.

"Here, Sam. See if you can get him to drink this. It is ginger tea with honey. The ginger will help to lower his fever and the honey will soothe his throat."

"Frodo?" Sam laid his hand on his master's face, surprised at how hot and dry the skin felt, and stroked his thumb gently across one flushed cheek. He was rewarded by Frodo opening bleary eyes.

"Bilbo?"

"No, Mr Frodo. It's Sam," he corrected, worriedly.

Frodo finally focused frightened eyes on his face. "Sam . . . thought for a . . . minute . . . Bag End . . . So hard . . . breathe . . . Just like . . . then."

"Like when, Mr Frodo?"

Frodo sobbed. "Years ago . . . pneumonia . . . Please, not again." Tears began to track down his already flushed face. 

As he had lain, staring at the firelight flickering on the walls, Frodo's mind had been drawn back to another time and place. He had been only a tweenager but he remembered vividly the feeling of his chest being squeezed tightly, making each breath an agony of effort. Bilbo had been there to help him then, and he had been surrounded by the warmth and comfort of Bag End. Yet even then, he had struggled for weeks, and would have given in to despair many times were it not for Bilbo's loving care.

He fought another sob. "Not again." How could he endure it in this cold dark place?

Sam swallowed back a lump in his throat. He had never seen Frodo so frightened, even after Weathertop. His breathing had been difficult then, too, but not like this. Sam could hear each rapid indrawn breath and they were too fast and shallow. He forced a smile.

"Come on, now, Mr Frodo. Drink this down and you'll feel a little better." He offered the cup and Frodo dutifully sipped, but he could not hide a wince as he swallowed and pulled away.

"Can't . . . hurts." He closed his eyes again and coughed, a dry barking sound, which did nothing to ease the congestion and only left him gasping at the sharp pain it elicited in his chest. But Sam would not let him go.

"Now then, Frodo. Don't you go giving up on me. You've got to drink this." Frodo's eyes opened in surprise at his friend's firm tone. "Come on, now. We'll take it a drop at a time, but you have to drink it if you want to get better." 

Sam offered the cup again and Frodo brought up one of his hands to guide it. There was a slight tinge of blue at the fingertips, Sam noted with alarm. Frodo opened his lips to let a few drops of the warm liquid into his parched mouth and swallowed carefully. It did not hurt as much this time.

Sam smiled and wiped away a stray drop from the corner of his master's mouth. It took some time, but he finally persuaded Frodo to drink the entire contents of the cup. The activity seemed to exhaust the Ringbearer, however, and when his friend let him alone again he fell into a light sleep.

The Fellowship ate their supper in shifts and predominantly in silence. Moria seemed to close in about them. The halls were huge and the ceilings high but the darkness restricted their sight to the small area they could light with fire and candle. (Gandalf had set aside his staff as soon as the fire was lit, stating that its use might draw unwanted attention to them.) When they had eaten, those who were not on guard duty rolled themselves in their cloaks by the fire and tried to sleep. All except Sam, that is. He sat at his master's side, changing the compress and pressing him to take a few sips of water whenever he awoke.

For much of the night Gandalf sat, hunched by the fire, his pipe clenched in his teeth. Conscious of Frodo's breathing, he did not light it but holding it helped him think. Legolas slept deeply. He had seen to that. Doubtless, the Prince of Mirkwood would have much to say to him on the matter when he awoke and found that he had not been roused for his watch for, unable to sleep himself, the wizard had sat it for him.

What was it that affected the elf? What would have such power that it could cut him off from the song that all elves heard? Gandalf was aware, distantly, of the music but he was not a part of it, as were the elves. His soul had been birthed in a different song and he could only imagine what it must be like for Legolas, perhaps like becoming blind or deaf.

Did whatever was dampening Legolas know of their presence or was the blocking simply a part of its nature? Perhaps whatever lurked in Moria instinctively hid its presence, rather than specifically reacting to the elf.

Gandalf hoped it was so. He had planned on a four-day hike through Moria, but it looked as though their time within these dark halls would be greatly extended. It would be unsafe to move Frodo until his fever broke, but the longer they stayed in one place the more chance they had of being discovered by whatever was hiding here.

Aragorn awoke and tapped Sam on the shoulder, for the little hobbit had nodded off. There was a short whispered conversation and then the Ranger took his place and Sam went to lie down next to Merry. Frodo tossed and fretted as the fever began to hold sway.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Aragorn watched the Ringbearer's blue eyes open dazedly. "Drink this, Frodo." He set a cup of vegetable broth to pale lips and waited patiently for him to comply.

"Bilbo?"

Aragorn sighed. Frodo was becoming confused, a sure sign that the fever was building, if the sweat soaked curls and flushed cheeks were not indication enough.

***

Frodo felt so tired. It was his birthday, and he wanted to get up, but Bilbo would not let him, saying that he was not well enough.

"Drink this down now, Frodo, my lad. Then there's some syrup for that sore throat and you can go back to sleep."

"But . . . party . . . need to help." It was difficult to muster enough breath to string together more than two or three words. Frodo tried to sit up but strong hands caught his shoulders and held him down.

"Whoa there, lad. Never you mind about that. You just drink this nice vegetable broth for your Uncle Bilbo." A little broth was trickled between cracked lips and Frodo swallowed, reflexively. "We'll postpone our party until you're well enough."

"Bilbo . . . so tired."

There was a catch in Bilbo's voice as he replied. "I know, lad."

***

Aragorn looked down into the unfocused yet fever bright blue eyes and wondered where and when the little hobbit's clouded mind had taken him. He seemed to think that his carer was Bilbo and, rather than confuse him further, Aragorn just kept coaxing him to drink the warm vegetable broth. When the broth was finished he gave his patient a couple of spoonfuls of the wild cherry bark syrup that he hoped would suppress Frodo's cough long enough for him to rest.

After the medicine Frodo did indeed sleep but the fever kept him fretful and, despite the syrup, he was roused frequently by a sharp, dry cough. As his temperature soared, he also began to experience the hot flushes and shivering chills common to high fever and the Ranger decided to begin a regime of bathing him and changing his sweat-soaked blankets.

Frodo roused as he felt someone tugging gently at the blankets that cocooned him. "Please, Bilbo . . . let me sleep."

He opened his eyes in surprise when Strider's voice replied. "It is I, Frodo. I will try not to move you too much but you will feel better if I bathe you and wrap you in dry blankets."

The little hobbit shuddered and tried to clutch his blankets closer. "Too cold . . . please. Let me sleep." Talking made him cough again, and the resulting piercing pain made tears spring to his eyes, forcing him into a tight little ball.

"I am sorry, Frodo. The blankets are damp and that is why you feel so cold. Please let me help you." He gently uncurled the hobbit's fingers from the covers and began to strip them away, untangling them from legs and arms. Too weary to protest further, his charge acquiesced.

Turning to the bowl at his side, Aragorn wrung out a cloth in the warm mint scented water and began to bathe Frodo's chest and neck in soft, long strokes. As he worked he folded the blankets back in sections so that as little of his patient's body as possible was exposed to the cold air. Frodo relaxed as the touch and the water soothed him, rolling on to his side, unprotesting, when Aragorn moved to wipe his back. The shivering ceased and Frodo felt less confused and much more comfortable, even managing a small smile of thanks as Aragorn settled him back.

Finally, he wrapped Frodo in dry blankets, setting the others to air by the fire and returning the smile. A large callused but gentle hand pushed the little hobbit's sweat dampened curls off his forehead. 

"Do you think you could manage a little camomile tea?" 

Frodo nodded and the cup was set to his lips. He swallowed warily but the warmth soothed his throat settling in his stomach comfortingly and sending out tendrils of welcome heat to the rest of his aching body. By the time he had reached the bottom of the cup, the tea was beginning to work and he was feeling rather drowsy.

Throughout the rest of the long night, whenever Frodo roused the Ranger fed him teas of ginger and peppermint, alternated with soup and cold boiled water. However, the battle to suppress the coughing was soon lost, even with the occasional spoonful of honey to coat the itchy throat. 

By morning the Ringbearer was exhausted. Although he was too weak to keep his eyes open, the constant cough had kept him always on the borders of sleep, and when the rest of the Fellowship began to stir Aragorn had decided on a potentially dangerous course of action. He called them all together by the fire, where Merry and Pippin were preparing the party's meagre breakfast.

"Frodo needs to rest if his body is to fight the infection, but the cough is giving him no peace. I have a medicine that will make him sleep however there is a problem in using it." The Ranger waited for his words to sink in.

"What do you mean, "problem"?" asked Merry.

"The medicine will make him sleep very deeply. That, in turn, will make him breathe less deeply. As his breathing is already very shallow, that could actually result in his breathing stopping altogether." 

Sam drew breath as though to interject but Aragorn continued. "If that happens, we must act quickly, and this means that someone must sit with him at all times." He sighed. "I hesitate to ask this of you when we are already taking turns at guard duty on two doors."

"I do not see that it is any different to what is already happening," Boromir pointed out. "For most of the night either you or Sam have sat with our ailing Ringbearer."

Aragorn replied. "That was our choice. Now all of you will be involved. Are you willing to take that responsibility?"

"I'll stay with Mr Frodo for as long as he needs me," announced Sam stoutly.

He quailed visibly, however, when Gandalf retorted, "You will take your turn to sleep and stand guard duty, along with the rest of us, Master Samwise."

"I'll do anything that's needed to help Frodo get well," offered Merry, laying a supporting hand upon Sam's shoulder.

"Then it is settled," announced Gandalf. "Aragorn will show us all what will be needed if it comes to it and Frodo stops breathing. Then we will add his care to our list of watches."

Frodo was only vaguely aware of the conversation, his weary mind too fogged to follow it and when Strider returned a short while later, the hobbit put up no resistance.

"Drink this, Frodo." Aragorn's voice, again and the cool touch of a metal rimmed cup at his lips. Frodo swallowed the cold liquid that filled his mouth. It had a nasty bitter taste and he was glad that he only had to take a couple of swallows of it. Within minutes his mind began to spin, spiralling him unresistingly downwards into deep and dreamless sleep.

Aragorn watched as it took rapid effect on the fever-weakened body. Dark fringed eyelids slid closed, hands that had been clenched into tight fists uncurled, and Frodo's breathing, although now very shallow, evened out. Once he was sure that Frodo was settled, the Ranger went to his bedroll to sleep himself, and first watch fell to the youngest hobbit.

Pippin found himself counting Frodo's breaths. It was a little disconcerting that his cousin was not stirring when he had been so restless only hours before. Beneath all the blankets it was difficult to see his chest rising, especially when his breathing was so shallow. If he listened carefully, though, Pippin could hear the wheeze of each out rush of air.

So intent was he upon Frodo's breathing that at one point Pippin found his own matching his cousin's, and had to break himself of the rhythm as he began to grow dizzy. He wondered if Frodo felt dizzy too. 

There was a pause in the sound. 

Pippin's heart paused with it, hoping that he would not have to put into practice the mouth to mouth breathing that Strider had explained to them all. 

Frodo took in a small ragged breath and Pippin relaxed once more.

Merry sat at the hearth, drying the last of the breakfast plates, and let his eyes roam the room.

Aragorn was asleep, wrapped in his cloak by the fire. Legolas and Sam were taking their turn at guard duty on the doors. Sam kept glancing back at Frodo and Pippin but Legolas was peering intently into the darkness beyond their refuge.

Since their entry to Moria the elf had seemed a little tense. Merry was aware that the previous evening Strider had administered a dose of the same sleeping draught he had just given Frodo but when the hobbit had tried to ask the Ranger why, he had changed the subject. Legolas appeared to be a little more relaxed at the moment, standing, leaning on his bow.

Gimli and Boromir sat together, conversing quietly. The dwarf was running a whetstone along his axe blade and Boromir was working oil into the leather of his sword scabbard. Merry noticed for the first time how beautifully figured the leather was and yet, its suppleness told of much use. The gear of the son of the Steward of Gondor was richly decorated, but it's elegance never stood in the way of practicality.

Boromir dripped a little more oil onto the rag in his hand and began to work it, in circular motions, into the tooled leather of the scabbard. "A nice mess we are in," he commented to Gimli.

The dwarf did not pause in the rhythm of sliding stone against blade. "But the mess is not of our making," he replied.

Boromir snorted. "If we had gone by way of the Gap of Rohan we would have been well on our way to Gondor by now."

"Aye, perhaps. In the clutches of Saruman and his army of orcs. We would have been hard-pressed to slip by Isengard unnoticed." Gimli did not like the way the steward was always questioning the decisions of their guide but he supposed that, as a leader of men he was unused to being second in command.

Boromir paused in his work, letting his eyes drift to the blanketed form of the Ringbearer. "We have the power to slip past, if we would but have the strength to use it," he whispered, softly.

"Ach!" yelped Gimli, as he dropped his whetstone and sucked his thumb, where it had slipped against the axe blade.

Legolas could hear clearly the murmured conversation behind him. Perhaps he should warn Mithrandir when his watch was ended. At the moment the man's words held no threat for they were trapped into their journey through this dreadful place and he would probably make no move until they were clear of it. Although who knew what his desire for the Ring would make him do? Thought of the Ring invited its seductive melody into his mind and Legolas pushed it firmly away. It was, however, becoming more difficult with each passing day and he could hear it beginning to weave itself into the songs of all the Fellowship. Boromir was but a little further along the road that they were all treading.

Legolas decided that he would speak to Mithrandir after his watch and glanced back into the room to seek out his resting-place. His eyes found Gandalf sitting upon the one intact chair they had found. His unlit pipe was clenched in his teeth and he was staring into the flames of the fire.

The wizard was quietly reviewing his memories of a previous journey through Moria. That time he had travelled east to west, however, and the landmarks would look different from this direction of travel. Would he be able to guide them safely through?

Safely or not, this was the only course left open to them. Saruman had seen to that. Gandalf berated himself once more for not having seen Saruman's treachery sooner. The signs had been there at the last Council Meeting, and yet even the elves had noticed nothing greatly amiss at the time. How easy it was to see the signs after the event. 

Gandalf shook himself. He was not all knowing. He glanced across at Frodo, suddenly very much aware of that which hung about the little hobbit's neck. Could the Ring give him that power? He shook his head, clearing it of the stray thought.

Sam was also looking at Frodo. He could not think what use he himself was, standing at the door. The world beyond their dimly lit refuge was black but not the friendly black of a cloudy night in the Shire. This blackness was so solid that he felt he could cut it with his sword. His eyes could pick out nothing. In fact, at first, he had tried so hard to see something that his mind had created phantom shapes and he had almost called out an alarm several times. Fortunately, when he blinked, the shapes had disappeared. Now he relied more heavily upon his ears.

Hobbits have very good hearing and Sam had begun to recognise sounds in the pressing darkness beyond . . . the steady drip of water and the sigh of a stray breath of icy air. Always, at the back of his mind, however, he could hear the soft rhythm of Frodo's breathing, and he longed to be standing vigil there, instead. Even as he listened he detected a change . . . 

Pippin leaned closer to his cousin, his ears straining for the telltale wheeze. Hesitant, he held his cheek against Frodo's mouth, hoping to feel the outward rush of warm air. For what felt like an eternity he waited. In growing alarm he pulled aside the blankets and tried to discern some movement of the pale chest.

"Aragorn!" 

With time for only this one frantic cry, Pippin knocked away the pack that held his cousin in a sitting position and lowered Frodo to his back on the floor. Tilting back the so-familiar face, Pippin pinched Frodo's nostrils with one hand and placed the other on his chin, forcing the now blue lips apart. Taking what he hoped was a normal breath in, Pippin sealed his lips over his cousins and breathed steadily out, forcing air into Frodo's lungs. As he rose, Pippin turned his head to watch the rib cage fall. He waited a moment and then repeated the process, only vaguely aware of the rest of the party crowding around him. When he leaned back after the fourth breath he was rewarded by the sight of Frodo's rib cage collapsing and then expanding on its own. Then it fell and rose again, accompanied by the now familiar wheeze.

Pippin sat back on his heels as other hands lifted Frodo up and slid the pack back beneath his shoulders once more. He was only distantly aware that it was Gimli, who was tucking the blankets back around Frodo. Strong hands slipped under Pippins armpits and lifted him gently to his feet, leading him towards the hearth and sitting him down on their one chair. 

Gandalf's voice seemed to come from a long way off. "Well done, Pippin. Sit here, now, while I find you something to drink. Aragorn will deal with Frodo."

Pippin sat, staring into the flames of the fire. A cup was slipped into his hand and calloused fingers pushed it to his mouth. He swallowed, mechanically, gradually growing aware of the taste of camomile and a hand lightly rubbing his back. Someone was sobbing quietly and it was a few minutes before Pippin realised that the sounds were being made in his own throat. He blinked, and the world slipped back into focus through a fog of tears. Glancing over his shoulder, he found himself looking into Merry's concerned face. The older hobbit smiled, offering him a hanky.

"Feeling better, Pip?"

Pippin blinked again, finally noticing the little group bent over Frodo at the edge of the firelight. Awareness of what had just happened flooded in, and Pippin scrambled to his feet. "Frodo . . . how is he?" 

Gandalf detached himself from the others and knelt down before Pippin. A gentle hand on the young hobbit's shoulder pushed him back into the chair. "Frodo will be well, thanks to you. Perhaps you should consider a career as a healer when you return to the Shire," smiled the old wizard.

Beginning to feel a little better, Pippin smiled back wanly. "I don't think so, thank you. I don't believe I ever want to have to do that again." He wiped his eyes and blew his nose. "Will he really be alright?"

"Yes, indeed, Pippin." Strider replied, as he crossed to the hearth and assessed the little hobbit. "Thanks to your quick action, he was not without air for too long, and he breathes again, although I would wish that it were deeper." He reached out a hand and touched fingers to the pulse at Pippin's wrist for a moment. "That procedure can be a little frightening the first time you do it." He grimaced. "I remember reacting much as you just did. Are you feeling a little better now?"

Pippin nodded and set his empty cup on the hearth. "I'm alright. Should I go back and finish my watch?"

"No Pippin. That's not necessary. Gimli will start his watch early. Why don't you go and get some sleep. It will not be long before your turn at the doors." He nodded to Merry, who set a hand beneath his younger cousin's elbow and drew him away to his bedroll, aware that the camomile tea would soon push Pippin into gentle sleep.of the rasping breaths coming form the small bundle in Legolas'

TBC.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

The watches changed and Aragorn came to relieve Mithrandir, pulling aside the blankets and bending to listen at the small chest, once more. The infection was still building and a quick glance at Frodo's face showed the bright flush of fever in his cheeks.

"He does not improve." Gandalf's voice was low and his comment was not a question.

Aragorn sighed. "I had hoped that with the rest his body would be able to fight the infection but I fear it has too strong a hold." He went to fetch warm water and cloths and then he and the wizard bathed Frodo's over-warm body and wrapped him in dry blankets again.

When Frodo finally awoke it was with a harsh dry cough once more, for with returning consciousness his body demanded more air and his congested lungs had difficulty providing it. In addition, the fever made him unresponsive and sometimes uncooperative; his confusion making him push aside hands that would help him. At such times it was fortunate that he was also very weak, for it was easy to subdue him, although all felt guilty at having to hold him down and force medicines upon him.

When Legolas took over Frodo's care Aragorn decided to try a new strategy of treatment. To Sam he gave the task of preparing a tea of mullein, in an attempt to loosen the fluid that was filling Frodo's lungs. Sam was a little envious of the comparative ease with which the Elf managed to coax the fretful Frodo to swallow the medicine. Sam's last attempt had resulted in his friend thrashing about wildly and spilling the ginger tea they were trying to tempt him with. There was something about Legolas' presence that seemed to soothe Frodo. Perhaps the elf's touch brought memory of Elrond and his care after the injury at Weathertop.

Aragorn gave the tea a couple of hours to begin its work before he made his next move. Adding peppermint to a large bowl of very hot water, he brought it and a blanket to his patient's side.

"Surely you do not intend to bathe him in water that hot?" asked Legolas, worriedly.

"No, but if we can get him to inhale the steam it may loosen his chest a little," he replied, shaking out the blanket. "Can you lean him forward over the bowl and hold his head?"

Legolas nodded, wrapping the naked hobbit in a warm blanket and lifting him gently into his lap. Setting one arm about Frodo's chest and the other on his brow, he tilted him forward over the fragrant steam. Frodo showed little signs of awareness, although his eyes were slightly open. Aragorn draped the blanket over the Elf's head, spreading its folds wide to enclose the bowl, and forming a tent to trap the steam.

0000

Frodo's eyes followed the flickering shadows caused by the fire on the wall. Dark shapes crawled across the uneven surface, then slowly gathered and began to take on form.

A tall shape detached itself from the stone and began to advance upon him. Cold eyes glimmered within the depths of a hood and Frodo tried to scrabble away, but the fallen statue at his back prevented him. He threw up his hands as the wicked point of the knife thrust towards him.

Pain sliced through his shoulder . . . ice white pain that tore a long scream from his throat. He struggled to escape but suddenly arms were pinning him tight. The scream turned into a cough and the agony in his shoulder was echoed by a searing pain in his chest and side. At that moment he felt he would die but voices began to penetrate his anguish.

"Aragorn, let us up! Let us up! He is struggling too much and will spill the water." Legolas' urgent voice sounded close by his ear.

"They're gone, Frodo. It's alright." Aragorn's calm voice came from somewhere in front of him. "Take a small breath in . . . now out. You are safe, Frodo."

"Please, Mr Frodo." Sam's voice, almost tearful.

Frodo breathed in a warm damp air, laced with the fresh smell of peppermint. The pain and the coughing began to recede.

"That's it Frodo. Now another one . . . "

He breathed again and opened his eyes to find himself propped over a large bowl of steaming water, in which floated some bits of dark green leaves. Legolas held him securely. Summoning what little strength he could muster Frodo raised his head, to find a circle of anxious faces.

The cough began building again and for a few moments Frodo fought it, but eventually he had to surrender. He was grateful for Legolas' support as the agony of the hacking coughs that wracked his weakened frame left no energy to sit up. Vile, metallic tasting, muck filled his mouth and he was thankful when someone put a cloth to his lips to spit into. When he was finished and lay, spent, against the Elf's chest, someone gave him cool water to drink. Then they laid him back on the makeshift bed and tucked him around with warm blankets, bathing his hands and face. He fell at once into an exhausted sleep.

Once Frodo lay quiet and still once more, everyone returned to their tasks. Merry cleared away the bowl and Sam took Legolas' place at his Master's side. Frodo's breathing was a little deeper but the congestion was still clearly audible, neither had his fever broken and he still muttered and stirred weakly.

Legolas splashed cold water on his flushed face and gratefully accepted the cup Gimli offered him. The elf sat down, some distance from the fire, unbuttoning his shirt a little, and Gimli settled down beside him.

"Do you think he improves?" Gimli asked, re-filling Legolas' cup from a flask of water at his side.

"Thank you." The elf accepted the cup, sipping more slowly now. "His chest begins to clear, I think, but if the fever does not break soon that will do him little good."

Letting his eyes return to Frodo, Gimli shook his head. "I have seen mighty warriors laid in their graves by fever such as this. Hobbits, it seems, are much stronger than they look."

Legolas took another mouthful of water, the pink tinge to his complexion beginning to fade to its normal alabaster flawlessness. "This hobbit, at least."

Gandalf returned to his survey of the darkness beyond the door he was guarding. Had the Ringbearer just turned a corner on the road to recovery, or was this just a change in tactic for the illness that gripped him? 

At the other door, Boromir wandered what was happening in the world outside, whilst they sat in this darksome hole, waiting for the Ringbearer to recover. If indeed, he ever did.

Day turned into night and still Frodo struggled. In the darkness of Moria there was no sunset to tell them of the onset of evening but Gandalf seemed to be able to count the hours passage. Frodo was trapped in his own night, peopled with visions, memories and nightmares.

***

The door to Bag End stood open, soft candlelight spilling across the threshold from within. Frodo stepped inside, his toes mapping the familiar contours of the tiled floor. On the coat hooks, by the door, were his old green travelling cloak and Bilbo's dark brown one. The little hobbit's heart soared with joy and he called out.

"Bilbo . . . Bilbo?"

From the kitchen came a whisper and the sound of a chair scraping across the stone flagged floor. Frodo ran down the hall but it seemed longer than he remembered and felt as though he waded through mud. After an eternity of running he caught the handle on the kitchen door and burst triumphantly into the room, a bright laugh on his lips.

The laugh turned into a scream for the small sunny kitchen of Bag End was filled with tall, dark hooded figures. As he fell through the door they spun towards him, the cold ring of steel filling the air as long swords were drawn. Frodo turned, almost tripping over his feet, and fled back into the hallway, only to be assailed by the same feeling of running through cloying mud. Try as he may, he could not reach the green front door and he could feel the icy breath of his pursuers stirring his hair.

A clawed hand caught his shoulder and threw him about. The black hooded figure towered above him, a huge metal goblet in its hand and a sibilant whisper issued from deep within shadows of the black cowl.

"Drink . . . halfling." The goblet moved down, clamped firmly within a metal gauntleted hand. Frodo whimpered and struggled, trying to pull out of its way, but another hand caught his chin. The cold rim touched his lips and he clamped his mouth shut but the finger and thumb of the other hand pressed at certain points and he found his jaw falling helplessly open. Cold, bitter liquid filled his mouth and then the hand switched position and his jaw was held shut, forcing him to swallow.

He was released, sobbing and allowed to sink to the coolness of the familiar tiled floor. Where was Gandalf? He had promised to help him against the Black Riders.

"Gandalf?"

"Yes, Frodo. I am here." The familiar voice pushed through his despair and the little hobbit's eyes flew open.

The ancient wizard was bending over him, his kindly lined face filled with concern. Frodo blinked. The familiar ceilings of Bag End were gone and beyond Gandalf's head a rough-hewn rock wall was just visible in the flickering firelight.

"Where am I, and what is the time?" Frodo blinked again and the fire lit rock was replaced by a high flat ceiling with intricately carved dark beams.

"In the House of Elrond, and it is ten o'clock in the morning." Gandalf blew a smoke ring from his pipe, as he sat by the open window through which could be heard the rushing of a waterfall and birdsong.

A rich, melodious voice drifted towards him from the other side of the bed. "Welcome to Rivendell, Frodo Baggins." The tall, elegant creature at his bedside had deep grey eyes and long, night black hair. 

As Frodo watched, in growing horror, the hair became a hood and black robes swathed the long lean body. Grey eyes became red coals, set deep within shadows and a clawed hand reached out towards the ring, lying heavy upon the Hobbit's chest. 

Frodo squeezed his eyes shut and tried to back away. "Noooooooo . . ."

A deep strong voice cut through his cry. "Frodo. It is I, Boromir. Be still, Little One. You are safe."

Frodo opened his eyes and met the light grey ones of the man of Gondor. The Ringbearer tried to draw in a shaky breath but the ever-present cough attacked instead. Boromir held him, patiently, until it subsided, leaving an unpleasant taste in his mouth, finally settling his charge back amongst the nest of blankets and giving him a few sips of peppermint tea to clear his mouth.

In the first moments of his awakening the Ringbearer had been burning but now he felt as though he had been plunged into ice water and he curled up, shivering within his coverings, feeling truly wretched. To his surprise Boromir scooped him up, pulling the blankets closer about him, and cradled him against his chest as he enfolded them both within the brocaded, fur lined depths of his rich cloak. The chilled hobbit began to relax as the heat from the man's body and the cloak infused him, his trembling slowing and taut muscles easing out. He began to doze.

Across the room Pippin set down his half eaten plate of stew, struggling to swallow the mouthful he had been chewing when Frodo cried out. All about him the rest of the Fellowship were doing the same as everyone suddenly lost his appetite.

At one of the doors, Aragorn had only half his mind on the possible contents of the darkness beyond. The other half was desperately seeking some memory of his foster father's instructions on the treatment of high fever. The mullein was loosening the fluid in Frodo's lungs but not fast enough.

There was one other herb in his medicinal that he had not yet dared to use on such a small creature as a hobbit. Elrond had given him a vial of boneset tincture, with instructions that it must not be used on the hobbits. The elven healer was wise in these matters but he was not travelling in the wild. In Imladris there would have been other ways to deal with Frodo's illness but they were far from the comfort of the Last Homely House. 

If he used it in a very small dose it should act as an expectorant and help with the fever. Of course, the first problem would be to get the hobbit to take it. Aragorn had only been dosed with it once in his life and vividly remembered its extremely bitter taste even now, many years later. If Frodo were more lucid, reason would prevail, but the little hobbit was slipping in and out of fevered dreams . . . 

As Frodo began to settle once more, in Boromir's arms, Aragorn returned his concentration to the watching of the dark. He would try the boneset tincture when they changed duties.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

The strong hand was grasping his chin again, the goblet pressed to his lips. Frodo cried out and tried to escape his captor's iron grip but he was too weak. A voice was insisting that he drink . . . that he swallow. He turned his head and finally managed to break free, struggling to rise.

"Frodo. Be still," commanded a familiar voice. Gandalf? The Ringbearer opened his eyes and tried to make sense of the vague shapes before him. Slowly, Gandalf's face came into focus and next to him, Aragorn.

"Gandalf, help me," Frodo sobbed, struggling to suppress the cough that lurked in his chest, threatening to overtake him again. He knew that he felt better when he managed to clear his lungs a little but the process was so painful . . . A strong but gentle hand reached down and stroked the hobbit's brow.

"It's alright, Frodo. You have a fever." He nodded to Strider, who brought the small metal cup to his charge's lips once more.

"I'm afraid this medicine will not taste very nice. But you must take it. I have some honey for you afterwards."

Frodo allowed him to trickle some of the liquid into his mouth and gagged immediately. It was so bitter that it brought tears to his eyes and he lost the battle with the cough, bringing lancing pain to his side and chest. But he was not to be released and, as soon as the dry barking cough subsided the cup was offered again.

"Drink it, Frodo."

The creature in his dreams had wanted him to drink something too. Dread made him squint up at Gandalf once more but the rock wall behind him did not change and Aragorn did not turn into the Dark King.

"Drink, Frodo." Strider pleaded.

The Ringbearer complied, willing his stomach not to rebel and expel the bitter drink. After he had swallowed the last mouthful Aragorn slipped a spoon between his lips and his mouth was filled with the sweet fragrant taste of honey. Frodo accepted it gratefully. When they tried to get him to take some broth, however, he refused and his carers decided it was not necessary to pursue the matter at that moment, letting him slip back into a light, troubled sleep.

Boromir lay, wrapped in his cloak in the corner. Gandalf had sent him away to sleep half an hour ago but the son of the Steward could find no rest. His dreams, now, were always haunted by visions of the Ring. Why had it fallen into the hands of this frail creature? Why could it not be used against its maker? It was folly to throw it away and even more folly to take it into the Dark Lord's land. The final irony, to Boromir's mind, was that it could well be used to heal the Ringbearer, if someone would but have the courage to use it at all.

Legolas and Pippin sat at the hearth. The wood elf had been inspecting and repairing his arrows and the little hobbit, ever curious, had asked him what he was doing. Pippin now sat, listening intently, as the elf carefully explained the construction of an arrow, demonstrating how to check the fletching, shaft and tip . . . tracing his finger along the curving path of the feathers that made the arrow spin straight and smooth through the air. The hobbit picked up one of the exquisitely made darts, rather timidly.

"Do elves use poison on their arrows?"

Legolas shook his head vehemently. "No. Only orcs use such vile methods to bring down their prey."

The little hobbit set it down again and stared into the firelight. "People talked about orcs in the Shire, but I've never seen one. Are they as awful as they say?"

The elf's face hardened, as it always did when orcs were mentioned. "They are devoid of all goodness and their outward aspect reflects the inward one."

"Do you think there are still orcs here?"

Legolas' face softened and he laid a hand upon the little shoulder. "I do not know, Pippin. Certainly there were orcs here, once. But now . . . I do not know." 

His eyes clouded and he tried once more to push against the walls about his soul but to no avail. And then, suddenly, there was a chink. He listened closely and caught the roar of distant fire. Slipping through, he followed the thread of song, its minor key grating on his mind. Then just as suddenly he was thrown back, his fea shrieking at the raw power pitted against it.

When next he became aware of his surroundings his head was cradled in Pippin's lap and Aragorn was bending over him, his expression showing open concern. Legolas made to sit up accepting Aragorn's help to steady him. A pounding in his head made the elf screw up his eyes against the glow of the firelight and fight to keep the contents of his stomach in place.

"What happened?" asked Aragorn, slipping into the grey tongue as he handed him a cup of water.

Legolas replied in kind as he sipped it gratefully. "I thought the walls had gone . . . there was a weakness and I sensed . . . something of fire and shadow . . . I think." He sighed. "I do not rightly know what I sensed. But something powerful hides here." He made to shake his head but winced as the action redoubled the pounding. "It reminds me of something . . . a childhood story . . . but I cannot remember."

Aragorn took the empty cup and replaced it with another that the wizard handed him. The scent of camomile rode upon the steam curling upward from it and Legolas drank slowly, allowing it to ease his mind. Then he sat, unresisting, as the Ranger began to massage his neck and shoulders. Pippin joined Sam, where he sat by Frodo.

"I don't like the look of that," said Sam, nodding at the group by the fire. Pippin swallowed in a dry throat.

"I don't know what they're talking about but I expect its not good," Pippin replied. He flung down the cloth he had just picked up to bathe Frodo's hands and it landed in the bowl, splashing water all about it. "Oh, how I hate this place!"

"I know what you mean," confided Sam, dabbing at a few splashes on his leg. Frodo stirred and his friend picked up the cup that Strider had left. "You'd best go fetch a spoon of honey, Master Pippin."

The room was dark. Had Bilbo drawn the curtains? Frodo tried to get comfortable but his mattress was too hard and he felt hot. How long was this illness going to continue? He had been at Bag End only a few weeks and now he was so very sick. Not a good beginning, and he would not be surprised if Bilbo sent him straight back to Brandy Hall. Where was Bilbo?

"Bilbo?" His throat was sore and he could not seem to draw enough breath for more than a word at a time.

"Try and drink this, Mr Frodo." It was not Bilbo's voice.

"Where's Bilbo? I need Bilbo" Frodo called out fretfully.

Again, it was not Bilbo who answered. "It's Sam, Frodo. Mr Bilbo's not here. Don't you remember? He stayed behind in Rivendell."

Frodo tried to understand. Sam was far too young to be looking after him. Why had Bilbo left the ten year old in charge? He forced open crusted eyelids and tried to focus on the face bending over him. It belonged to a stranger. Who was he and why was he asking him to drink something? Frodo pulled away from the offered cup.

"You're not . . . Sam. Where's . . . Bilbo?"

He tried to turn his head to look about the room. Where was his dresser? And the window should be over there . . . He tried to sit up and pull away from the stranger but the effort cost him dearly. The cough started slowly, building upon itself, and the more he tried to stifle it the worse it got, until he felt his lungs would burst and tears of agony were flowing freely down his face. Strong arms supported him and someone rubbed his back, briskly.

The cough subsided, leaving him limp in the arms of whoever was holding him. The stranger's voice again. "Please, Frodo. Drink this for your Sam."

Too spent to protest, Frodo allowed himself to be fed the bitter liquid, followed by a spoonful of something sweet and sticky. The arms lowered him back onto a pillow of some sort and then other hands bathed his hands and face with cool water. It felt good and the he let the confusing world slip away.

As the watches came and went Gandalf sat by the fire, considering Legolas' words. Was it Durin's Bane that he had encountered? And what was Durin's Bane? It was a creature talked about in hushed tones by the Dwarves when it was mentioned at all, but none now seemed to remember what it actually was. The Prince's description began to form a picture in Mithrandir's mind, however, and that picture had a name . . . Balrog. He had never thought to be pitted against such a foe in this age. If it found their little party would Gandalf be strong enough to protect them? He hoped they would not have to find out.

He kept a close eye on the Prince of Mirkwood but he seemed to recover well enough from his ordeal. Although he said that his headache had subsided the wizard could tell that he was still plagued by the previous problem. It was interesting to note that Gimli often placed himself near Legolas and the soft murmur of the light elven voice and gruff dwarven were often intermingled now, sometimes even in laughter.

"Legolas, come and see this," called Gimli quietly. The elf joined him, where he stood in one of the darker corners of the room. Taking Legolas' hand the dwarf laid it upon a shadowed section of wall and the wood elf's face lit up as his fingers traced the carving that he felt there. Merry joined them, candle in hand, and Legolas pushed him forward.

"Bring your candle closer to the wall, Merry." The little hobbit complied and gasped, as it's tiny golden flame illuminated the surface before him.

It was clear that the entire wall had once been intricately carved but most of it had been so badly defaced over the years that it was impossible to see what it had originally contained. The orcs had missed this corner only because it had furniture piled against it. Now the questing flame of Merry's candle revealed leaves and flowers, birds and insects in what appeared to be a woodland scene. 

The Wood Elf's fingers followed the crisp outline of an oak leaf and encountered the tiny form of a bee at its apex. Merry touched a robin, tugging at a worm from out a clump of delicately carved grass, his finger tips feeling every feather of its wing. So intent was he upon the tiny creature that he did not notice the elf's eyes mist with tears, but Gimli did and Legolas did not pull away when he felt a consoling hand laid upon his forearm.

Frodo contended with his fever for many hours but it became clear that, despite the boneset tincture that Aragorn kept pressing upon him he was losing the battle. The fretful tossing slowed and then stopped and his breathing became more and more shallow. It was with a feeling of great sadness that the Ranger had to acknowledge that Frodo's chest was now becoming more congested, instead of less. In this dry and dusty tomb the hobbit was drowning.

Sam sat at his master's side most of the time now, and Gandalf gave up all pretence of sending him to guard the doors or sleep. Aragorn too, was relieved of other duties and together they tried to keep the Ringbearer breathing.

Frodo lost all contact with the world. Eyes half lidded, he did not even seem to have the energy for nightmares and made no response when they bathed or fed him. Fortunately, his body still swallowed reflexively and, although it took some time, they were able to continue to get him to accept fluids and medicines. But despite all their care his lips became first pale and then bluish and his shallow breathing rattled alarmingly.

TBC.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Aragorn sat at his patient's side, listening to each laboured breath and once more tried to remember all the lessons he had received from his foster father, a feeling of helplessness beginning to overwhelm him. Even on the road from Weathertop there had been the hope of reaching Elrond, but here there was no knowledgeable healer at the end of the journey. There was only Estel.

He prepared another dose of the boneset, careful not to exceed the dose he had decided upon. To give Frodo too much could make him very nauseous and that would be dangerous in the unconscious hobbit. He paused . . . vomiting . . . Aragorn suddenly remembered something he had heard Elrond mention only once. When all else failed some healers induced vomiting in cases like this because the violent reaction brought on coughing, which helped clear the chest. It was a dangerous procedure, however, as the patient could aspirate the contents of his own stomach. The Ranger assessed his charge, wondering whether there was any chance he would recover on his own.

Frodo's face was cold, his pallid skin holding a dusky shadow, and yet a sheen of perspiration covered his brow. His lips and fingertips were blue and his half lidded eyes revealed no sign of bright blue iris. Limp as a rag, he lay still but for the slight rise and fall of his small chest, each outward breath announced by the gurgling rattle that Aragorn had come to associate closely with those near the end of their time. Unwilling to make the decision on his own he called the Fellowship together once more.

"We must discuss Frodo's condition." There was no way to sweeten the words he had to say. "I believe he is reaching the end of his strength and we may lose him."

"No!" wailed Pippin and Merry put an arm about his cousin's shoulder and pulled him close, although his own heart echoed Pip's cry.

"Mr Frodo is stronger than he looks. He'll pull through. Don't you go giving up on him," warned Sam, adopting his most stubborn, arms folded, posture.

Legolas laid a hand on Sam's shoulder and the little hobbit looked up into his bright green eyes. "Aragorn is right, Sam." The eyes grew distant. "I have heard such breathing before. Always it follows long illness and comes just before the end." His memory pushed forward an image of his mother, golden hair spread out across the pillow, and his father weeping softly at her side.

Sam shrugged off the elf's hand. "Mr Frodo will come through." He stuck out his chin in defiance.

Gimli came to stand at the wood elf's side, his gruff voice kindly. "He has a strong spirit, Master Hobbit, but even the strongest may fail."

"I feared this may come," sighed Gandalf, wearily, as he leaned more heavily upon his staff. He had played his part in pushing Frodo into this quest and it grieved him that the tiny hobbit would not even see it done, before ending his days. The wizard tried to push aside the image of a pink-cheeked lad, running through the orchard towards him, dark curls bobbing in the golden sunlight and a merry twinkle in his cornflower blue eyes.

Boromir surveyed his grieving companions. "He made a valiant effort but he was not made for such hardship." Why could they not see this? These hobbits were not meant for perilous quests, no matter how brave. They had not been bred to war, as the men of Gondor.

"Mr Frodo has endured more hardship in his life than you can imagine," bristled Sam. "He's come through before and he'll come through again." What did these big folk know of the strength of hobbits? Mr Frodo was chosen to be Ringbearer and surely that counted for something?

The man from Gondor opened his mouth to reply but Aragorn held up his hand to forestall him. "Enough, please," he begged, tiredly. The presence of the Ring was tugging at each, trying to drive wedges between them. Elrond had called them a Fellowship and now was not the time to drift apart for they were yet at the beginning of their long journey.

"There is one last treatment that I may use but I will not take this action without the agreement of the Fellowship, for it is not without its dangers." All eyes turned to him once more. In this, at least, he would see them united. 

"Then let us know the worst," demanded Merry, ever the one to face a truth head on.

"It is a procedure I have heard mentioned only once and I have seen it tried not at all. Frodo is trapped in a cycle. The congestion in his lungs causes pain when he breathes so he eases it by breathing more shallowly. That, in turn, means that the congestion builds and so he takes in smaller breaths to compensate. And so it goes on until the lungs are filled with fluid and he can no longer breath at all." He paused to let the import of his words sink in.

"I have heard that some healers try to break this cycle by making their patient vomit. This causes such a shock to the system that a deep breath is taken, and that in turn induces coughing which starts to clear the lungs." He surveyed the Fellowship again, taking in their shocked expressions. "It is a drastic method and we must be careful that he does not choke upon the contents of his own stomach . . ." he let his words trail off and waited for their response.

Pippin looked up from his cousin's shoulder. "It sounds horrible. Isn't there any other treatment?"

Aragorn shook his head, sadly. "Elrond may know some other way but I do not. And I have not even seen it done, only heard tell of it."

"What are his chances if you don't do this?" asked Merry.

The Ranger swallowed back a lump in his throat. "If we do not do this I fear it will be the end for Frodo." 

He had seen only brief flashes of Frodo's merry spirit on this dark journey but he had sat for many hours, listening to Bilbo talk of the pranks played by his nephew when he was younger. It saddened him that such joy and laughter should be torn from the world, without even the chance to complete the task that had robbed Frodo of them.

Sam shook his head but it was Merry that spoke up again. "We trusted you all the way from Bree and you did not let us down. You have tended Frodo these past days when you could have easily abandoned him and gone on, taking the Ring yourself. If you say there is no other way . . . I trust you."

Aragorn felt the cold mantle of responsibility settle upon his shoulders once more. So many people had tied up their hopes in him and now here was another.

"Thank you, Merry. And what of the rest of you?" They had all a say in the matter for if it came to the worst it would be one of them who would have to take on the burden of becoming Ringbearer.

Boromir spoke up first. "I see little choice. I believe you must try this or risk losing the little one. I take it that you will not make trial of the Ring to cure him?"

His query was met with a round of shaken heads and he spread his hands in defeat.

Gimli shook his head, sadly. "It is a hard choice for he may be lost either way. But I have watched him on the journey and although I have not known him as long as Aragorn, I see a fighter and I think he would want to be given this opportunity. I say you must make the attempt."

"I agree with Gimli," added Legolas. "His song is strong and pure but it is fading." His eyes met Aragorn's grey ones. "And I trust Aragorn's judgement in this."

"I too think we must make trial of your plan. What of the other hobbits?" asked Gandalf.

Pippin wiped his eyes on his sleeve and glanced at Merry. "I think you should try it, although I am terribly afraid for Frodo."

All eyes turned to Sam, who stood shuffling his feet for a moment. "I believe Mr Frodo will come through, whether you do this or not but . . ." He looked up at Strider and his soft brown were filled with pain. "Wiser folk than me say that this must be done so I say, let's be on with it."

Gandalf turned to the Ranger. "You have your agreement. How do you wish to proceed?"

"A larger dose of the tincture I have already been giving him will induce the vomiting but we must watch him carefully once it is administered."

"How long will it take to work?" asked Pippin.

Strider was already seeking out the small bottle. "Only a few minutes. We must ensure that we are ready." He felt relieved now that the decision had been made.

"Legolas and Sam . . . I will need help. Frodo seems calmest with you. We will need basins and cloths and he must be held upright. I may also need your help getting him to take the medicine. It is very bitter and it has been difficult forcing him even to take the small doses I was administering before. Although it has been less so these past few hours," he added quietly.

Boromir and Gimli volunteered to take the guard and the rest of the Fellowship helped in whatever ways they could. Blankets were warmed, water collected, the fire was stoked and candles set so that they had light to work. When all was in readiness Aragorn signalled for Legolas to lift Frodo. 

The elf wrapped him in a blanket and lifted him into his lap with all the tenderness he would have shown a newborn babe, Frodo's tiny form leaning against his strong chest.

Strider handed the cup of boneset tincture to Sam. The gardener hesitated for a moment, and then held it to Frodo's lips.

"Come on now, Mr Frodo. Just a few mouthfuls and it's done."

It was doubtful at this stage that Frodo could hear him and even less, understand him, but still Sam tried to reason and soothe. The revolting liquid dribbled between blue lips and Aragorn looked intently for the bobbing of Frodo's throat to show that he had swallowed. Four swallows and it was finished. Aragorn waited with the empty bowl and offered up a silent prayer.

As he had predicted, the vile liquid did not take long to work on such a tiny form. His hand upon Frodo's stomach, Legolas felt the sudden contraction of muscle.

"Aragorn!"

His warrior reflexes coming to the fore, Aragorn had the basin in place in time. Frodo wretched dryly once and then again, bringing back a little liquid. Strider noted that some of it would probably be the tincture but it had done its job. Frodo broke out in a cold sweat and his body shook as he heaved again. There was little in his stomach and only a little bile was the result but then he gasped for air and, sure enough, his lungs responded by sending him into a paroxysm of coughing.

Pippin had to turn away when he saw the disgusting brown green sputum his cousin coughed up but Sam sat with his Master through it all, wiping his brow and mouth. Legolas held Frodo as steady as he could, whispering words of comfort and encouragement in his light, soothing voice and Aragorn watched and waited.

Slowly the coughing became less violent and then it faded away. Frodo lay, lax, in Legolas' arms, but his breathing was deeper and the ominous rattle had gone. Aragorn sighed with relief as his patient was laid back against the padding of his makeshift pillow. Merry brought warmed blankets and Aragorn and Sam removed the now damp ones, bathing him with warm water before wrapping Frodo snugly.

Sam wiped his Master's face with a damp cloth. "He looks a bit better. His lips aren't blue any more. What do we do now?"

"Now we wait, Sam," sighed Strider. "The next few hours will tell. I hope we do not have to try that again for he is very weak and I am not sure that he will withstand it."

At his place by the hearth Pippin could not help thinking, "And I could not stand it, either."

After an hour Frodo's breathing had not deteriorated and he seemed to be holding his own once more. Aragorn decided to try the Mullein tea again. Although still not conscious, they managed to get the Ringbearer to swallow it. There were several more small coughing fits, each one productive, and with each one Frodo's breathing seemed to improve. Although he did not wake and his fever still produced shivering chills and sweats.

It was at the end of one of the boughts of coughing that Frodo's blankets had to be changed again because they were soaked in perspiration, and within a couple of hours of that Sam called Strider across.

The Ranger settled himself on the floor, opposite the hobbit and tilted his head, quizzically.

"I'm not sure if it's just my wishful thinking, but I think he looks a bit better, Mr Strider. What do you think?"

Aragorn placed fingers to the pulse at Frodo's neck. It was still a little too fast but it seemed steady and the skin was warm and dry. He parted the covers and laid his ear to Frodo's chest, hearing much congestion still, but the sound of air moving in and out was also clear. Strider pulled the blankets close about him once more, to avoid chilling his little patient. The Ringbearer was still pale but the slightest pink tinge to his cheeks told of a good supply of air, rather than fever.

Aragorn leaned back and smiled. "I think you may be right, Sam. We must be careful to keep him warm now and try to get him to take some nourishment. His body will need strength to recover. I will send Merry with some broth." As he turned to leave, he heard Sam's voice.

"Thank you, Strider. I wasn't sure of you in Bree. Mr Frodo trusted you but that's his nature, and sometimes people take advantage of it. I trust Mr Frodo though, so I went along with his decision." His voice contained a certainty that the man had not heard before. "I just wanted you to know that I believe you've more than proved the trust he put in you, sir."

Aragorn paused and turned, bowing low to the little gardener and touching hand to his heart. Praise from Samwise Gamgee was not easily earned but when it was given it was highly prized and Strider felt honoured to have received it.

"Frodo? Mr Frodo?"

Frodo blinked open sleep encrusted eyes and a familiar face slowly coalesced in the dim light. "Sam. How long have I been asleep?" His body was gripped by a great weariness, and every muscle ached, as though he had been running for miles. He swallowed in a dry and sore throat.

"You've had quite a sleep, Mr Frodo. You've been a bit sick, and we were worried for a while, but now you're on the mend." Sam was smiling and, over his shoulder, Frodo could see Merry and Pippin smiling too, although he thought he could also see the sparkle of a tear in Pippin's eye.

"Try a little of this broth," offered Sam, as he touched a warm cup to his Master's lips. The last few hours had been a confused jumble of nightmare and reality but Frodo decided to let his questions wait. For now, he was hungry and then, perhaps he would sleep again.

Pippin watched, for once silent as his cousin drank the broth their friend offered. This time, Frodo's gentle soul had been returned to them. But what trials were still to come? Pippin tried to memorise every curve of Frodo's features, every nuance of his voice, for the thought stole coldly into his heart that there may come a day when he would never know them again.

THE END.


End file.
